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Butterfly Nights by Deirdre Palmer
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The car slinks around the square almost by itself, as if it knows what is required of it. Eyes shine out of the shadows and try to find mine. I stare purposefully ahead, increasing speed like an ordinary driver passing through, but I fool no-one. I don’t like what I have become. That building over there, still chequered with lights, is where I used to work. At least I think it was me; it’s hard to tell sometimes. From my eyrie on the seventh floor I would look down upon the dwindling stream of traffic, the screaming neon signs above doors invisible in daylight, the burger bars frilled with genderless teenagers, and the girls emerging into the night, like butterflies from chrysalises, to hover by the railings or the shuttered newsagent’s stand. Watching the girls sucked up time, made sure I wasn’t home before Evie carried the well-thumbed book of her despair to bed. That was before. Now I spend my days fumbling around the margins of Evie’s world, hoping to find a chink, a way in, but there is none, and at night I come here. A breeze riffs in through the partly open window, carrying with it the smell of rain. Slowing again, I glance round and am reassured by the sight of Freya’s old parka with its peeling badges and scruff of fur around the hood. I turn into a side-street where a narrow passage splits a row of shops, its entrance lit by a solitary street-lamp. Sometimes there are girls here. At first I see no-one, then three appear as if the dank brickwork has offered them up as a sacrifice. A cigarette lighter shoots a flame and gives me the face I am searching for. Her eyes flick towards the car. I open the door and wait. Taking her time, she draws on her cigarette then drops it, clicks over the pavement and gets in. I reach across to secure her door, not looking at her, not speaking, and drive away. We stop on rough ground behind the closed-down cinema. I drag the parka from the back seat and she sits forward, allowing me to wrap it around her. Then I draw her to me and hold her, warm and safe in her cocoon, pressing my lips to her hair, breathing her in, until, after a while, she tenses, and I release her. ‘Are you eating properly?’ She risks a pale smile. ‘As always.’ I start the engine and we head back, Freya in her skimpy dress and jacket, the parka on the back seat. Then, just as we reach the square, something wonderful happens. ‘Give my love to Mum,’ Freya says, in a small, soft voice, and all I can do is nod. Now I know the day will come when I will bring our daughter home, and on that day Evie will come to life again and the light will return to her eyes.
Winning Entry: Mother’s Pride Second Place: Finding a Solution |
